


Handprints on My Soul

by Ozymanreis



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [54]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Burns, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemy Lovers, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love/Hate, M/M, Mother Nature - Freeform, Mother Nature Being an Asshole, Plot Twists, Scars, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tragic Romance, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2760122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh <i>god</i>, not that <i>rubbish</i>…" He shook his head in disappointment, "How distinctly plebeian to keep hope like that."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Don't Have a What?

" _Girlfriend_?" Sherlock asked, as if it were a question at all. Like the word was so foreign on his tongue, never been there before. He regained his know-it-all-holier-than-thou attitude quickly, "No, not really my area…" Then again, he might've just been engrossed in watching for the supposed killer. 

"Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend?" John continued his little interview. It didn't seem that outrageous to ask, to try and get a feel of the man who might be his flat share in a few days' time, "Which is fine, by the way." Hedge bets, just in case. 

"I _know_ it's fine." Sherlock tried to brush it off — meaningless line of inquiry that wouldn't go anywhere.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?"

 _Christ_. He was trying to scout out a _murderer_ , "No." 

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. Fine." He cleared his throat, unable to think of much else to say. Getting shut down at every angle… "Good."

Sherlock finally broke his concentration, absorbing every movement and inflection. Something he needed to get out in the open right now, even if it were misleading, "John… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any — " 

"No." John interrupted quickly, "No, I'm not asking. No. I'm just saying it's _all_ _fine_."

Confusion flashed across Sherlock's face, but nodded it off, "Good. Thank you."

Seemed the end to a perfectly pleasant (if a bit awkward) conversation. John certainly felt a little more knowledgeable of the detective, even if he couldn't yet see the gears turning in his head: _I'll hold you to that acceptance, even if you don't know what you're getting into._

 

* * *

 

"I thought you said you _didn't_ have a boyfriend?!" John tried to contain the incredulity in his voice. But Sherlock had obviously lied to him, and he couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit betrayed. Watson had been walking home from work, and had caught sight of that mop of curls. He was going to go up and say hi, but upon getting closer, he saw the detective was sitting outside at a café, talking with a client. New case?

Then the doctor processed the scene: Sherlock was on a _date_. With a man — early thirties, wavy black hair, dark jeans, light blue button-up, shorter than Sherlock, stubble peppering his face. John had to freeze as their body language registered: leaning in towards each other, little smiles, laughs, hands clasped together (through Sherlock's leather gloves, but still), ignoring their drinks. 

Dutifully, to give them some semblance of privacy, Watson backed away, going back to their flat. He waited a while after Sherlock returned home, considering how he might handle it. At the heart of it all, it wasn't his business. But it was _shocking_. They'd been living together less than a year, but he'd taken that one, fleeting, uncomfortable conversation about relationships as a good barometer for how the detective felt about "romance." 

"I _don't_." Sherlock stressed, pacing into the living room. He'd taken notice of John's presence, across two streets, and had hoped if he ignored it, that the doctor might take the hint. Clearly not.

"But I saw — "

"Yes, you _saw_ , but you did not _observe_." Sherlock snapped, "Namely, that it was a secret, one I don't wish to discuss." 

"Uh, alright then — "

"However." He interjected once more, "I don't have much of a choice now, as I don't want you getting the wrong idea." He pointed to John's chair, "Sit." A command. As if he were a dog, or some army drone.

 _Then again_ , the doctor thought wistfully, sitting as he followed the order, _Basic never really leaves a man,_ "Okay…" He said, uncomfortable that Sherlock was just standing there, looking down at him. That stare… it's as if he were trying to boil an anthill: just sadistic and power-mad _enough_ , but with no outstanding threat to humanity. Yet. 

"Before we get started, you should know who that man is." He licked his lips, "Might clear some things up…" 

John wasn't sure what that meant — he hadn't seen the man before. Was he famous? Didn't seem familiar at all. At least not from telly… 

Sherlock sighed at the doctor's clear lack of understanding. This was going to be all sorts of horrible. Yet, for some reason, he found himself open to the potential dismissal, "His name is Jim Moriarty."

"Jim… _Moriarty_?" John's jaw dropped, eyes flickering across the room, as if further answers were only hidden from plain view, "You mean… _Moriarty_? The name that serial killer shouted out?"

"The same." Sherlock replied, tone clearly bored. While he hadn't told anyone else about this, he had already calculated this was the exact reaction he'd get from everyone else: surprised, appalled, possibly disgusted, "Your expression right now confirms for me why I didn't want to get into this."

"What? No, I'm sorry…" Watson shook his head — he knew it was rude on almost every conceivable level. But etiquette be damned when your new roommate just announced that he was _involved_ with the man trying to kill him, "Look, why don't you finish explaining, and I'll try to keep my reactions to a minimum?"

"Right…" Sherlock raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but let it go quickly, "Well. There's not much to say, honestly. We've had… an _obsession_ with one another since we met. We're not 'dating,' but we've taken lengthy measures to ensure we fulfill that."

"Since you met?" John furrowed his brow in concentration, connecting the dots, "So… what, you're _soulmates_ , then?"

Sherlock burst into laughter, doubling over. It wasn't a _joke_ , and John stung with a slight feeling that he was patronized, but it was nice to see his flatemate in high spirits again, "Oh _god_ , not that _rubbish_ …" He shook his head in disappointment, "How distinctly plebeian to keep hope like that."

"Oh come on, it's not _that_ uncommon."

"A solid third of people will find their 'soulmate,' the biological mechanisms of which are still largely unknown." He huffed, "For now, classified in the scientific community as an antiquated breeding method that evolved when humans needed to be very choosy with mates." He grimaced, voice taking on a slightly amused tone. A mystery left unsolved — always a good time, "Still, appears to take on too many unwarranted chemical reactions to say _why_ for certain."

"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds like no big deal. But trust me, I've known people — "

"Yes, yes, first-hand accounts make it all out to be _wonderful_ and that even if you aren't _perfect_ for each other, you _will_ be. You'll 'grow together' and become the same being." He flailed his arms, groaning at the ceiling, "Dull. Horribly dull."

"And what you have with Moriarty is…?" 

"Something even more potent. _Interesting_." He smirked, "I saw him, and I just _knew_." 

"Knew what?"

"Knew that I would _loathe_ him beyond normal human capabilities." He said, clenching his fists in passionate anger, face still mirthful. 

"Wait, _what_? 'Loathe?'" That just didn't add up. Absolute hatred was _interesting_? Maybe that was a vital piece of understanding he was missing from Sherlock. 

"Loathing!" He said, as if that made any sense at all, "We locked eyes and instantaneously saw _through_ each other. All that we were. Two pieces of the same whole, lives destined to clash until our deaths at the hand of the other!" 

"How are you _not_ describing soulmates right now?" Alright, a twist on the conventional definition. But just because something is commonly accepted didn't mean it was the only way it could come about. What John was hearing was an inexplicable draw to one another, always slotted together on a path of passionate feeling. 

"With a soulmate, if testimony serves correctly, you touch, and you feel intense euphoria. Then, as time goes on, contentment, yes?" He pulled off his gloves, proceeding to make no show of taking off his jacket, tossing it aside. With the same haste, he unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a raised, scarred handprint over his left pectoral, "When Jim and I touch, it literally _burns_."

"Jesus!" John flinched backward into the back of the chair, "That happens _every_ time?" 

Sherlock shook his head, buttoning back up, "Not exactly. In short bursts, it's still painful, but no marks. _That_ was from prolonged exposure."

"On _purpose_?" John frowned as Sherlock nodded. He'd said it in jest, but that mark was _clearly_ _intentional_ , with participation from both parties, "Why on Earth would you do that?" 

"Experimenting. Curiosity." He shrugged, "He's got one too. We discovered more than a minute begins to eat away at the epidermis. Two minutes, as far as we calculated, will leave second-degree burns."

"Whenever you _touch_?"

"No…" It was a bit worse than that, "Anytime he and I can feel the _heat_ from each other's skin, even through thin layers of clothing…" He picked up the gloves, "Hence my penchant for thick leather."

"So… definitely not soulmates." 

"No… something of opposite." He mused, " _Anti_ -soulmates." He said in a mocking, mysterious, shadowy tone, "Soul _nemeses_ , doomed to destroy."

"Why are you even _together_ then?"

"We're _not_."

"Sherlock, you _know_ what I meant."

"Why does anyone do anything, John?" He shrugged, "We were bored. soulmates are boring. What we have is… interesting. Unique. Neither of us have found any documented cases of something like this. Meaning every new thing we learn from our 'special bond' is _new_ information to the world."

John took a deep breath. Coming from Sherlock, it almost made sense. He bit his bottom lip. "Alright…" He nodded slowly. Might take some time to reconcile the idea of the lovers' (possibly?) being on opposite sides, bringing each other physical, disfiguring pain. But again, that wasn't really his business. 

Sherlock held out his palm, slightly reddened — he'd placed his hand over Jim's earlier, wanting to be close. "For whatever reason, my body outright _rejects_ his, and his mine." He smiled as he examined it, "And it's beautiful."


	2. Not "The One," and That's Just Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of backstory!

In recent years, there has been more of a push for people to find their respective "soulmates."

From the day children start primary school, they are bombarded with romantic tales. Some even earlier — princes and princesses locked away in castles, rescued by a valiant knight, or a peasant that turned out to be a lost monarch of courageous heart. Drawn by some inexplicable force, they either find out they're "destined to be" or already were.

Kidnapping tales were all too prevalent, as separating someone from their soulmate on a supposedly permanent basis was a recipe for madness. Men away during wartimes had placed horrible strain on soldiers and spouses, so the draft had come to exclude those who'd been "soul-bound." Made the concept even more appealing for some. 

James Moriarty, however,  _despised_ it from day one. Even as a toddler, the idea of being so utterly dependent on another human being held absolutely no romantic value to him. It just sounded creepy and weird.

Thus, he made a point not to touch _anyone_. It really was the best policy, both for his potential soulmate and his own desire for autonomy. 

 

* * *

 

Despite all the research and fanaticism, not much was known about the "soulmate." Mystical, and Sherlock Holmes would've called it entirely _mythical_ if he hadn't witnessed it happening first hand. His senses could lie to him, of course, but the process was unfortunately corroborated by generations of recorded incidents (in great detail), going back to some of the first written texts. 

Not only that, as anecdotal evidence is flimsy, but he’d done ground-breaking research on the subject under pseudonyms — accruing favors with radiologists to put those who _claim_ to have a soulmate in MRI machines, in order to monitor brain activity when the supposed mate was touching them, and when they were apart for a lengthy period of time. The latter option had been rejected outright on the basis of being “cruel, unusual and unethical,” but he was wealthy, and that got around a lot of reservations.

Still, sample size was small, to some varying results, thus making most of his data inconclusive. 

If that weren’t frustrating enough, even from his _own_ _personal_ research, untouched by political agenda, vastly unknown to his unwitting participants, Sherlock could only confirm three basic rules:

 

1) Both parties had to be of sexual maturity (perhaps the most important caveat).

2) One had to _physically touch_ the soulmate for confirmation. 

3) The initial touch causes an intense rush of euphoria. Subsequent touches lead to diminishing returns, until left with lasting contentment or complacency. 

 

Well, by _those_ parameters, a syringe of 7% solution was Sherlock's soulmate — he simply wasn't buying the gimmick. Besides, with the validity of rule #1 very much intact, it was all but confirmed for Sherlock that this was a _sex_ issue, and the act sounded repulsive anyway. 

_Just not for me._

But with those ideals in place, Sherlock lost several years to drugs. He never really regretted that.

 

* * *

 

When they meet, and their minds begin to change. Initially, there is something they mistake for hatred — friction. Life had been smooth, as no one had _really_ withstood the test of their deconstructing stare. But at the first glance, something resonated. Something deep, that they couldn’t yet ascribe vocabulary to. 

Still, “loathing” was an accurate enough description for their narrow (at the time) views. The burning face, the rapid heart rate, the aching desire to tear the other apart… a loathing so strong, they _had_ entangle themselves in the other’s life.  

Regardless of the copious amounts of time they spend together after that, they don’t touch. For months after they met, they refuse. Temptation is _there_ , accentuated by each “almost” moment. 

When they both reach for the same cup of tea, only to stop themselves midway through the air.

When they stay up late into the night, just talking, they find themselves leaning in. Drawn together by sheer magnetic force, hungry, wanting. Desperately seeking connection they had both abhorred growing up. 

Because if they touch, one of two things could happen: either their suspicions were correct, and they were each other's soulmates. 

Or their bodies would meet, and nothing spectacular would happen. In both scenarios, they were lowered the level of human beings. Ones that were scrabbling at the edges of the universe for affection, putting their fates in the clutches of an unknown biological mechanism, or ones that simply put faith in each other.

Leaps of pure chance were never their style, but despite any form of disappointment that may occur, the mystery was juicy. In the _mystery_ , anything could happen. They could paint fiction of it happening any which way — in their fantasies, they could have the best of both worlds.

They could have everything. Except touch. A base desire, but one whose craving only grew by the day. Expanded in increments as they fell more and more, undeniably in love, stepping ever closer to the inevitable. 

 

* * *

 

Four months in, and Jim gets that look on his face. One that tells Sherlock he’s about to be _so_ naughty. A fun spot of mischief, an elaborate crime, a new theory in mathematics. Anything _but_ what comes out of his mouth:

“Darling boy, it’s time.” 

Within a fraction of a second, Sherlock’s face falls into something resembling _terror_. His mouth goes dry. He doesn’t need to ask for elaboration. Yet, even as every atom in his form rallied against the idea, curiosity couldn’t be helped. 

He nods. 

 

* * *

 

They stood in the living room of one of Jim’s flats — the rationale that whatever happened, they’d at least have privacy. 

Jim placed a flattened out palm in front of him, as if waiting to accept a gift. Sherlock hesitated, unsure if he was ready for the illusion to be broken. Even if he was so sure five minutes ago, that meant nothing now. 

Thankfully, his theoretical soulmate could sense that, offering wry smile, wordlessly conveying “no rush.”

Swallowing, the detective gave the smallest of nods. He picked up his hand, letting it hover several inches above Jim’s. “What happens if _nothing_ happens?” 

“Then we make our own destiny.” Jim said effortlessly, “It’s just biology. I’ve never _intentionally_ touched anyone else…” His hand was steady, unflinching as his decision, “I probably won’t. Ever again.” 

The words are meant to be comforting, that Sherlock is his one and only, that Jim won’t be searching, confirmation or not. Yet, it heaps so much more _pressure_ onto such a simple gesture: either they’ve already found their soulmates, or they never will. 

“No reason to drag it out, then.” Sherlock took a breath, then made the plunge. 

 

* * *

 

“ _Christ!_ ” The detective shouted, jerking his hand away from Jim’s the moment flesh touched flesh. It was like grabbing the searing metal of an active radiator. His hand throbbed as he shook it out, as if trying to extinguish the invisible fire in his cells. 

Jim seemed less affected, but all of his hair now stood on end, his face contorted into a wince. It wasn’t just their hands — a signal had swept everywhere from the crown of his head to the ends of his toes, a sensation akin to _fear_. 

 _What was_ that _?_ Sherlock wanted to shout, but it seemed his mouth wasn’t quite working, still paralyzed from the shock. Wasn’t ready to process. It had been _painful_. Who’d ever heard of _that_ when you touched a specific person? Nothing he’d read so far. 

If someone _wasn’t_ a soulmate, _nothing_ happened. It was an anti-climax, a blank. And their brief contact wasn’t a pleasurable experience by any means. 

This? This was something new altogether. 

Jim, also in shock, finds his voice first. “Well… _that_ was unexpected.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock answered. The statement wasn’t anything like Jim — an obvious observation, didn’t add anything to the conversation. But oh, there was that _look_ …

“Let’s try that again.”

 


	3. A Temporary Solution

Not long after he and John’s confrontation, Sherlock went back to his room to text Jim and inform him of this new development. He laid down on his bed, tongue between his teeth, wondering what the best way to phrase it would be. It wasn't that he thought Watson was going to cause problems, but after living for almost a year in complete secrecy, it was something of a relief. Like releasing a constricted breath, or venting one's frustrations. 

Maybe it wouldn’t have the same effect for Jim, as the man had to have everything so tightly controlled, but whatever emotion it afforded his partner, Sherlock figured the man had the right to know and plan accordingly.

 

**Seems our secret is out. SH**

 

Jim wasted no time in replying, a knee-jerk reaction to his shroud being pulled away.

 

**Pity. It was fun while it lasted. JM**

**Who found out? JM**

 

**John. He saw us at the café. SH**

 

**I suppose that defeats my next question of “does that person need taking care of?” JM**

 

**I should say so. SH**

**He seems to understand our predicament, and will most likely keep quiet. SH**

 

**Does mean we can quit sneaking around? JM**

**Or that it's over? JM**

 

**What a ridiculous question. SH**

**Neither. SH**

 

**Wonderful. You had me worried for a moment. JM**

 

**No matter what, I doubt it will ever be “over.” SH**

 

Eternally bound, even if not by ties of a soulmate. It was perhaps stronger than that, nothing so predictable and mundane as biology forcing them together. Rather, it was intellectual: unable to be heightened, or _distracted_ by the physical. The true meeting of the minds which could not be silenced by sticky fumbling. 

Still. Whenever a person, a consultant especially, is told they  _can't_ do something, they'll try all that much harder to get it. 

 

**Well I'm primarily concerned with tonight. JM**

 

**What's tonight? SH**

 

**I've got a little experiment planned. JM**

 

**Should I be afraid? SH**

 

**Only if it fails. JM**

 

**[delay] When can I expect to see you? SH**

 

**I'll let you know. JM**

 

* * *

 

Jim doesn’t let Sherlock know, but that was nothing new. They both have something like a radar for the other’s presence. When either was within a kilometer of the other, their finer body hairs would stand on end. 

A familiar prickle on the back of his neck did better for Sherlock than a knock, warning him that his opposite was nearing. The sensation had dulled somewhat over the year or so they’d been dancing around it, but like the pain, they doubted it’d ever be completely gone.

“Darling?” Jim called, prying the door open with a light hand to curb the creak as best he could, “You awake?”

Sherlock had been reading. Realistically, even if he hadn’t been expecting Jim, the only thing that’d have been different is the detective would’ve indulged in his more chemically-minded experiments. “Yes, of course.” 

“Wonderful.” Jim walked into sight, Sherlock setting the novel aside, eyes already alight with excitement, immediately catching an interesting detail: tucked under Jim’s arm was a box, wrapped with sheer silver paper, glistening in the low lighting. 

“What's that?”

“A present.” Jim said simply, placing the package in Sherlock’s lap.

“Didn't realize it was Christmas.” He replied, fingers carding over the sheen.

“It's not.” Jim shrugged, “But that doesn't mean I can't get excited for it.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Part of your _experiment?_ ”

“A very big part.” Jim smiled with his entire visage, wrinkles appearing above his cheekbones, “Please. Open it.”

Not that he would, but the detective could never argue with that face. He shook the parcel, trying to get a quick hint — much of the fun in gifts was the mystery, and Sherlock liked solving mysteries by profession. But there was no sound. _Something one-pieced, soft and large, then…_ Long fingers began tearing at the paper, a simple brown box revealed. 

The top was lifted off, and Sherlock’s eyes were awash in a sea of plushy aquamarine, “A blanket?”

“Research turned it up.” His partner explained, licking his lips expectantly, “Getting straight to the point: its stuffing is made of a substance called ‘aerogel.’ You've probably heard of it.”

Sherlock had, though he was under the impression that it was a stiff, glass-like substance, not the thin, malleable duvet that sat across his lap, “A very poor conductor of heat.” He finished Jim's thought. That included body heat, didn't it? “Ingenious.” He was almost furious he hadn’t thought of it first. However, this news was simply _too_ good to have any sort of negative feelings over. 

“A blowtorch could be firing point-blank against one side of it, yet an ice cube would stay frosty on the other.” It was far more than just a “poor” conductor, “Militaries and space programs are heavily interested in it for clothing…” Jim continued, “The long johns aren’t quite up to snuff yet, but when they _are_ …” 

An even thinner medium on the horizon. If this worked, continued to work, they could theoretically get closer and closer. Sherlock stood up, hands on each corner of the cloth, fanning out the blanket as he went. It extended past the length of his body, and was wide enough to wrap around him twice. 

“Bedroom?” Jim offered, taking a step back, “Laying down, gravity will keep it in place. One less thing to worry about.”

He smirked back, “Ignoring the fact you’d like to snuggle?” Sometimes, no matter how prettily you dressed up a statement with logical justifications, the true meaning couldn’t be obscured. 

Maybe it was just a soulmate thing. “Something wrong with that?” Jim asked, already headed to the detective’s door. 

_No_. Sherlock followed without another word. _Why nitpick when it invariably ends in a favorable conclusion?_

As Sherlock entered, Jim continued to stand, “Lay down. Blanket over you.” Simple, the anticipation nearly radiating off of him. He was usually such a still person, but in this moment, Sherlock perceived the slightest amount of a quiver. 

The taller man hesitated only a second, mind quickly producing the location of the leather gloves, in case this didn’t work. Even if he didn’t want to consider the possibility of failure, it was just that: a possibility. 

He crawled onto the bed, somewhat awkwardly, aware of all of his movements as someone was watching him expectantly, the thin blanket somehow heavy in his hands. Laying on his back, he pulled up the fabric, the entirety of it almost covering the whole mattress.

Jim was quick to follow, shrugging out of his jacket and setting it on the dresser. He took up the space next to Sherlock, heart pounding, nervous, working up the courage to really _test_ the idea. Something like going bungee jumping for the first time, the possibility of agonizing pain a giant stick behind his back. Sherlock could feel it too.

Regardless, no more than a minute had gone by before Jim plopped all the way down, arm wrapped around Sherlock’s frame, leg curling around his covered one. All or nothing. 

For a moment, the air thickened, neither of them daring to breathe, frozen in fear. Seconds dragged by, unable to enjoy the pseudo-physical contact as their bodies clenched, reflexively preparing for the burn.

But there was nothing. They exhaled, weight lifting off their chests.

After a moment, they realized how odd it was, cuddled up to someone with no extraneous warmth being returned, bodies entwined with what remotely resembled flesh, but was neutral. Jim shifted his weight to get comfortable, cheek nuzzling against Sherlock’s chest-area.

“Do you think…” Sherlock gingerly picked up his arms, making sure they stayed within the confines of the fabric, encasing Jim in his hold,“… that if we find the biological mechanism for ‘soulmates,’ we might learn to disable it?” Even with this recent success, it wasn’t quite enough. 

“Perhaps.” Jim’s reply was somber, fingers of his free hand petting at the blanket, “Assuming that what we're experiencing is even the same process.” He craned his head up, placing a very quick, burning peck on Sherlock's jaw, “But we’ll keep trying, I promise.” He licked his lips to soothe the heat, hoping they wouldn’t be awoken by a careless kick of covers in the night. 

However, even fearful, the feeling was different. Before, all of Sherlock's research on the subject was in bitterness. But as he laid there, closer to Jim that he had ever been, he realized somewhere along the line, it had become about hope.


	4. A Nearly Permanent Solution

Sherlock stood in a blue room. The walls are metal, in squares, but it looked essentially like a normal living room (three tan sofas, coffee table, woven rug), save for a large black cube in the corner, but it drove his senses crazy that it smelled distinctly of _nothing_. 

Jim had texted him the address, and the detective had checked and re-checked to make sure once he’d arrived. 

Figuring he might as well relax, he sat on one of the couches, eyes occasionally drifting back to the heavy door he’d come through. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later, a tapping echoed through the room as if it was hollow, that Sherlock quickly identifies as the insertion and turning of a key. The door swung open, a very fluttery Jim passing through, voice soft, loving, “Darling.”

Sherlock already knew he’s got something wonderful to report. “Jim.” He stood back up, instinctively walking towards him, both stopping within arms’ reach. As far as they dared. 

It’d been five months since the blanket, which they used almost nightly. But as with every other breakthrough, their contentedness couldn’t help but wane, desire to fully realize the other’s touch coming back at full force. But so far, no luck. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.” 

“Hardly.” He nodded, but glances back to the furniture arrangement, “Why I’m waiting _here,_ however, I’m certain you have a good reason.”

“Secrecy, for one.” Jim began moving toward the back corner of the room, beckoning Sherlock to come with him. “Mostly, I wanted to be sure something would work before I gave the green light to a rather large construction project on my flat.” 

“And what would that be?”

Jim stopped at the black box, tall enough to come up to his hips. He pointed at a hidden panel on it, prying it open to reveal a few buttons. “This is a large electromagnet.” He waved his hand at the ceiling, “This entire room, the walls, contain a fine metal mesh, turning this place into a large Faraday Cage.” 

Sherlock blinked, giving it another look — the sleek, lab design of everything was without personality, but yes, _functionality_. “I see…” He said, but had to wait for further instruction. “And what’s that for?”

“When I turn on this magnet,” Jim continued, pressing a large red button, the machine whirring to life under his finger, “It’ll produce a charge, that I’ve specifically tweaked for this experiment. And it will be entirely contained within this room, without any outside electronic interference.” 

Sherlock let a beat hang in the air, considering. _What could Jim possibly want with this much of a charge?_ Well. There was only one thing that _really_ mattered. “What does this have to do with being my potential soulmate?” 

“There’s a little-known effect…” Jim smirked, holding his hand flat, vertical, palm facing Sherlock. “That the ‘soulmate’ endorphin release is dampened in the presence of certain electrical currents, fields… only dampened, mind you, since these charges are generally very low. But this one? Of my own tinkering?” 

Sherlock, stunned, says nothing. His eyes rake over Jim’s offered hand. “Perhaps… shut it off entirely?” He mirrored the gesture, letting his own hand approach Jim’s. 

“ _If_ it’s the same mechanism. Hopefully.” The smaller man’s pupils were blown, pulse quickening in anticipation. 

“It’s going to work.” Sherlock nodded firmly, but isn’t yet sure enough to close the gap. “It has to.” 

“Not how science works, unfortunately.” Jim said to cover himself, not letting hope win over, but the look on his face betrays his actual anxiety. 

“We have to do this. Try.” 

“I know.” Jim swallowed, “If this doesn’t work- ”

Sherlock couldn’t bare to hear the end of that sentence, immediately pressing his hand into Jim’s, eyes scrunched shut, braced for the pain. 

Nothing happens. 

Sherlock eases his eyelids open, stare fixed on their hands. Touching, but not burning. He inches his gaze over, Jim’s face a look of sheer _awe_. Speechless, both of them, stuck in place. 

After a moment, the criminal digs in his pocket, pulling up his mobile in his free hand, flipping through the screen, then placing it back in his pocket. After a moment, Chopin’s waltz began playing quietly, Jim’s fingers entwining with his, his other hand coming up to Sherlock’s waist, drawing him close, “Do you know the Viennese?”

Sherlock grinned, feet assuming the correct position, hand curling over Jim’s shoulder, “What rich, posh English boy doesn’t?” Afternoon upon afternoon spent with the family’s dance instructor rarely paid off, but now the detective was silently giving his begrudging thanks. 

Three minutes later the song ended, but they kept going, moving together, _touching_. They had gradually fallen out of proper stance, Jim’s head now rested on Sherlock’s lapel, Sherlock occasionally pressing kisses to his forehead. 

“Mm… I like this.” Jim hummed, nuzzling against his chest. 

“It’s…” _Everything I’ve wanted for almost two years._

“Yeah.” Jim nodded, feeling too mutual to be said aloud. He looked up, kissing Sherlock’s jaw, “I’m going to modify my flat to be like this. I won’t turn on the magnet when you’re not around, but- ”

“Of course.”

The criminal smiled, getting on the tips of his toes to catch Sherlock’s lips. Their first non-agonizing kiss. Warm, perfectly so. Soft, something neither could quite appreciate when trying to control the pain reaction. 

They don’t part for what felt like twenty minutes, Sherlock only breaking away to ask a throaty, choked-up, “Does this mean…?”

The corners of Jim’s mouth twitched up higher, mischievous again, “Oh yes.” 


End file.
